By: Sarah Thompson
Date: November 27, 2023
There was a time when I felt compelled to take medication to manage my mental health. I was prescribed an SSRI because my previous medication, Zoloft, had lost its effectiveness. Ironically, we opted for Prozac because other options were notorious for causing weight gain. Go ahead and chuckle at my predicament.
Dresses became my go-to choice, which helped me avoid the slow squeeze of tight jeans or unflattering shirts. However, I still found myself gaining weight. I transitioned from a size 8/9 to a 14/16, from medium to XL/XXL. I thought my new XL dresses were just a snug fit due to my busty double H cups, but that wasn’t the case.
One summer morning, I looked in the mirror and noticed my protruding belly. Oh no, I thought. I’ve gained weight. Not just any weight, but weight that felt significant for me. I used to weigh 120 pounds before having children and was now the same size as the average American woman, fitting into the smallest offerings from Lane Bryant and Cacique.
In a moment of panic, I disposed of my Prozac, thinking my other medications would suffice. (A move I don’t recommend, and neither does my doctor.) I naively assumed the weight would just melt away. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. After shedding a mere 10 pounds of water weight, I stepped on my ancient scale and it read 180 pounds.
Tears streamed down my face. If you’re a woman in America, you understand the societal pressure surrounding that number. My husband tried to reassure me, saying, “You don’t look like you weigh that much.” But I replied, “Well, I do. The scale says so.”
Determined to lose the weight, I adopted a strict modified paleo diet and committed to a Couch to 5K running program. After two weeks, I was back on the scale, only to find it still read 180 pounds. I cried again, recalling how I had weighed that much after my second child. The images of my double chin haunted me.
Five weeks later, I could tell I was losing weight; my belly was noticeably smaller. I could now run for eight minutes straight. My psychiatrist advised me to ignore the scale and focus on how my body felt instead. But curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped on the scale again. It still said 180 pounds. Frustrated, I kicked it under the dresser, bruising my toe in the process. That was the last straw.
My clothes fit better, my belly was shrinking, and I was feeling more energetic. I decided that scale was just taking up space, so I tossed it out. It felt liberating. I no longer cared about fitting into Lane Bryant sizes; I felt good in my own skin.
I had a revelation: the number on the scale was arbitrary and fluctuated due to countless factors like hydration levels or digestion. Before I became fixated on that number, I was content with my body. Once I saw it, I spiraled into self-doubt. I even fantasized about extreme weight-loss procedures. But despite my healthy eating and dedicated running, that number remained constant. My clothes fit better, and I felt amazing. The problem wasn’t me; it was the scale.
Letting go of that scale was like severing ties with a toxic friend. While I understand that it might be useful for some, for me, it was harmful. Similarly, the label “fat” carries negative connotations that I don’t accept. I am not lazy or unhealthy. So, I decided to reject those labels too.
Now, when someone compliments my appearance, I choose to genuinely believe them.
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Summary
This personal journey reflects a transformation in mindset regarding body image and self-worth. After grappling with weight gain and the emotional toll of scale readings, the author learns that happiness and health are not defined by numbers. Ultimately, this journey emphasizes the importance of self-acceptance and rejecting societal pressures regarding body size.